


Reel Around the Sun

by lena1987



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beaches, F/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Scotland, Sex, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lena1987/pseuds/lena1987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of service, Headmaster Snape steps away for the summer. The sea calls – but he is not the only staff member to answer. SSHG. Mature themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnapeBraille4TU](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnapeBraille4TU/gifts).



  
**Reel Around the Sun**  
  
I tried to repress it  
Then I carried its crown  
I reached out to undress it  
And love let me down  
  
So I tried to erase it  
But the ink bled right through  
Almost drove myself crazy  
When these words led to you

_Damien Rice_

* * *

 

  
  
**Part One**  
_  
__Summer, 2016  
  
Admete Cottage_  
  
In a small white house on a hill, a wild-haired woman let herself inside and closed the door, barely glancing at the light, pleasing furniture. Slowly, she turned until her forehead leant against the thick wooden door and she rested her palms flat on the surface. The room was warm as the last dregs of the day's sunlight filtered in through the open window. Wind stirred up the air, rustling parchment on the desk set at the side of the room. She could feel the breeze on her skin, tickling the tiny hairs there, igniting something within her very blood.  
  
The waves of the wide open ocean crashed upon the rocks outside. It was all she could hear, all she could sense; it was everything that she knew she'd needed.  
  
.  
.  
.  
  
_The NorthLink Ferry_  
  
The sea was wild, harsh and strong. It battered the ship, its waves smashing into the hull, its force lashing the sides. The vessel dipped and dived, carving out a path through the battleground of the oceans that met underneath. Atlantic and North fought for dominance in a dramatic display; perhaps I should have heeded the warning of the captain, and found a seat within to wait it out. I chose instead to stand huddled in the open, my feet anchored to the floor by a charm, the spray of the sea hitting my pale face. Each droplet of ice-cold water that inched its way down my skin marked me as a free man; for the summer, at least.  
  
Slowly, ever so slowly, the waters began to calm. I drew my cloak around my body and waited, eyes fixed on the sky. The air tasted of salt and tang and grass.  
  
I was desperate for it. I had waited for it. I  _thirsted_  for it, for sky and air and wind. The Headmaster’s tower at Hogwarts gives one ample chance to be king of all he sees, but it is a prison. A prison cloaked in eccentricity and power, but a prison nonetheless.  
  
I gave it seventeen long years of determination and dedication. Still, the castle holds sway with me but I have reserved these weeks for myself, and for myself they shall remain. Perchance I may liken it to any other profession – responsibility is all well and good, and the Headship is rightfully mine. I am glad of it; after many years of submitting to the will of Albus years ago, sitting in that chair has healed me far better than loneliness ever could. For there, I may direct, I may command. I may right wrongs and most of all, I am not idle.  
  
Summers have been spent there, in the Head’s chair. For years, it was necessary; the war left a veritable bounty of paperwork and bureaucratic procedures. It seems that defeating a Dark Lord only brought with it death, sadness and filing. New teachers were needed, repairs were required. For weeks between hospital visits, organising repairs and interviews with the MLE, I stood at burial after burial and watched lifeless body after lifeless body be taken up in flames, the smell of smoke magically whisked away. My students, the lot of them.  
  
That I had failed was inarguable.  
  
And so I stayed, and I worked. For seventeen years, I submitted.  
  
I am not fool enough to believe that these weeks of summer interlude will draw me in and turn me out again a new man, but I have hope. After many years of harried business, solitude calls. Isolation calls.  
  
Is there a better location for this? If there is, I do not know it. Miss Lovegood is the new owner; she has sent me a brochure each year for the last five. Her letter of acceptance when I owled a last-minute reservation was written with enough stray ink-spots as to scream of her triumph. I shall allow the witch her smugness, and more than this: I shall praise her for it! For she regretfully informed of a prior commitment on the Continent—something about Brexit and taking trips while she can, which speaks volumes of her tendency to throw herself into ridiculousness—and unfortunately for her, she will not be present. I am not to worry; there is an able-bodied friend there, experienced and ready to cater for anything I may need or desire.  
  
I cocked an eyebrow at that; schoolmaster I may be, but a man I am first. There was nothing in it, and yet there was something in it. Still, her flowery words can be dismissed easily enough. It would be impossible for any woman that I might possibly take an interest in to suddenly appear in such a remote location. Far be it from me to wish for impossibilities.  
  
The captain’s voice is not so easily avoided. Fingering the shrunken trunk in my coat pocket, I turned and made for the side whereupon the best view was promised.  
  
It was a view indeed, and the breath left my body in a sigh of indulgence and pleasure.  
  
The Old Man of Hoy and his surrounding minion-like cliffs were imposing; I stared without reserve, drinking in the very evidence of the insignificance of man and wizard alike. And it was this that was heady; it was this that was intoxicating. The ship led us around the cliffs, and there was a town there, Scandinavian more than anything—which might be a lie for all I knew, having never been to such places—but it was the cliffs, it was their  _presence_. The stone buildings of Stromness wrapped me up and coaxed me in, and I knew that I would wander through the streets and old pubs with time, but on the ship, it was the cliffs. It was the power of it – the  _sense_  of it.  
  
Almost as if they were alive. A very strange thing, indeed.  
  
When instructed, I disembarked and followed the crowd into the small town. Stepping into a small lane and retrieving Miss Lovegood’s handwritten guide to locating the B&B, I muttered the steps to myself in order to keep them in my mind. They were nonsensical and filled with her penchant for vagueness; I grinned with wry amusement. I have always been fond of her unapologetic personality.  
  
_Headmaster Snape,  
  
As the birds soar above and the wind pulls you every which way, demanding your submission, disobey it! Walk south-west on Ferry Road, the Road you stand upon as you read this letter. Walk away from the town, Headmaster, though your throat may call for a whisky, or your stomach for a meal. You shall find all of this and more at your final destination. Take the left so as to stay on Ferry Road. Continue along this way, and pause every now and then to look at the cliffs and thrashing waves. The sea air will follow you, and you will smell it clearly now, clearer than from within the confines of Stromness. Walk on, Headmaster. Walk and turn right on John Street, and walk some more. The fields will embrace you, and there is not a tree to be seen.  
  
You shall find us not long after.  
  
Yours etc,  
  
Luna Lovegood  
Admete Cottage._  
  
I followed the instructions and paused when the witch suggested it. I was entranced as I wandered, my cloak rippling out behind me in the wind that seemed hell-bent on dragging me in seven different directions. The fields stretched for miles over rolling hills; the young Miss Lovegood had been succinct. There was not a tree to be seen; it might have been unnerving, but this was no Hogwarts. There were no forbidden forests to beckon and lure, but rather moors and fertile lands tamed by ploughs. In the distance, rain was falling, though I walked with the sun upon my face and for a few lucky seconds, the wind was at my back.  
  
And then I saw it: her Admete. The building was small and white, its pointed roof dark under the grey clouds. It was perched not far from the edge of the land, overlooking the rolling, vicious waves. There was a box of a tiny red car parked outside, and nothing else to draw the eye, bar sea and cliffs and sky.  
  
I stood and drew breath, and I was captivated. With a thrumming heart, I made for the house.  
  
.  
.  
  
_A fortnight earlier_  
  
She was desperate for it. It was perfect, arriving just in time to save her from maudlin thoughts that were bogged down in self-pity. For the sake of her pride, Hermione took herself in hand just enough to beam widely and throw her arms around her gift-giving companion, instead of dancing around on the lawn. The two witches clung to each other; Hogwarts cast a shadow in the blinding sun, softening the harsh rays as they laughed.  
  
“It’s  _just_  what I need,” she declared into Luna’s fair-as-ice hair.  
  
Her close friend chuckled in her airy way as she returned the embrace. “It’s not paradise,” she warned her, her voice muffled by Hermione’s curls. “I mean, it is, but for you I think it’ll be something else. I’m worried the isolation will drive you…”  
  
“What? Mad? Can’t be anymore mad than I am now.”  
  
“I was going to say  _wild_ ,” Luna admitted, withdrawing just enough to pat her cheek. “There’s something about it – all that land, sky and water. It’s…”  
  
Hermione closed her eyes, hearing the crash of the waves in her mind. The anticipation was thrilling – unbearable, even. She thought she’d run mad from excitement, not from the location.  
  
“It’s just what I need,” she repeated in a whisper, pressing her lips together to stave off the inevitable quivering. “I’ll take care of the place, don’t you worry about that.”  
  
“Oh,” Luna dismissed, “I know you will. That’s why I asked you, after all. But you’ll take care of  _yourself_ , won’t you? I’d hate to arrive home and find you stark-raving, walking over the fields in wellies with your hair streaming everywhere, rain, storm, or shine.”  
  
Blinking, the older witch raised a bemused eyebrow. “Another tale from your mysterious vegetable man?” The rugged islander responsible for delivering Luna’s weekly load of fruit and vegetables—only the ones that she couldn’t grow herself, mind—had been a significant feature of their conversation the evening before.  
  
“He isn’t mysterious,” answered Luna matter-of-factly. “You’ll meet him when you’re there.”  
  
Hermione grinned and looped her arm around that of one of her dearest friend’s. The two witches turned back and walked through the gates of Hogwarts, pausing as they always did to take in the beauty of the castle in summer. It was a gift that was rarely displayed to any but its teachers, who saw the bright sun shining warming the old building, coaxing out its charms.  
  
“It almost sounds like an adventure,” Hermione said, already thrilled with how her summer was beginning. “I’m so pleased that you’re trusting me with it. I know how you care for the place – this is a true gift, Luna.”  
  
They walked slowly towards the main doors, and she noted the Headmaster slipping through them on his way out. He held no bag; his belongings may have been shrunk, but to Hermione, he cast a lonely figure as he strode down the steps.  
  
“Enjoy your summer, Headmaster,” she called kindly, offering a half-wave that he did not return. He passed them, nodding with a grimness to his face that pained both witches. They were left with an impression of his robes cascading about his figure, enveloping his long, straight hair, the colour so reminiscent of the deepest India ink. Turning—for she was unable to stop herself—Hermione watched as he exited the gates and Apparated away in one quick movement.  
  
“The same?” Luna asked heavily, holding the door open.  
  
“The very same,” she agreed with a sigh. “Every summer, I find myself hoping that something will work its magic on him – heal him, or lead him on the road to it. It doesn’t seem fair that you’re gifting me with this, and he’s left to be wherever he’ll be. I hope he won’t be alone.”  
  
For five years, she’d worked with him. Or under him, she supposed – he maintained a distance as Headmaster that Hermione had never quite managed to close. She knew that he was friendly with the staff members who he’d taught alongside in the years before his appointment, but he maintained a respectful relationship with all four of the younger staff members. It was no longer frustrating; she felt that his eyes smiled when his mouth did, and that was enough. He could be kind when he wished, and she knew him well enough to use his first name and know that he preferred coffee in the morning and a builder’s tea in the afternoon. Aloof he was, yet harshly handsome – unreachable, all the same.  
  
She shook her head. Really, there was no point in thinking about it.  
  
Luna hummed under her breath and shrugged. “I’m sure magic will be worked. Now – you don’t have any work to take with you, do you? I don’t want you holed up with your lesson plans. We don’t have anyone booked—I made sure of that, due to my absence—but there might be a last-minute reservation and if you’re all right, I won’t decline it.”  
  
“No, no!” she said as they reached her office. She opened the door behind the desk and ushered Luna into her private quarters. “Just leave me a good list of what I may need. Anything you want me to do, I’ll do.”  
  
“Good.” Luna trailed her fingers over the spines of the Arithmancy Professor’s many books before turning and smiling faintly at where Hermione was already heading into her bedroom with the aim of assessing what clothes she’d take. “I only want you to be open to it, Hermione,” she called softly, crossing the room to lean against the open doorway of the bedroom.  
  
“Open?” Hermione asked over her shoulder, grinning. “Easier said than done. But I’ll be present; I’m still using those mindfulness exercises you gave me last term.”  
  
“I’m glad. But I do mean it. Be open – with your heart, your mind. Your eyes, too, of course. The islands are alive, you know.”  
  
“Alive?” Puzzled and caught between being intrigued and realistic next to Luna’s tendency to throw herself into fables, Hermione paused. “Do you mean alive with history? Culture?”  
  
The witch gave a small nod, but her answer was no answer at all. “All of that.”  
  
“And more?” Her stomach was beginning to twist into small knots of excitement; she hadn’t been away on her own for years, having often chosen to spend her summers at the castle or with friends and family. With half of her mind on what books to take, and the other spinning off into vibrant threads detailing long walks, crashing waves, and languid nights, Hermione was barely listening.  
  
“And more,” was all Luna said, with one of her slow, bemusing smiles. “Simply: more.”  
  
“More,” echoed Hermione. “Good. I want that. I want all of that. Thank you, Darling,” she said again, striding to her friend and embracing her again. “I don’t know how to even begin to thank you.”  
  
Laughing, Luna said, “Just make sure the sheets are clean and the ice-box is stocked. If a guest comes, you’ll be run off your feet. I don’t think you’ll be thanking me at all.”  
  
“Run off my feet?” She brushed imaginary lint away from her chest. “Me? Capable me? No, never. Now, off you go and let me pack. You’ll have to go before I get envious of your holiday in France, you lucky duck.”  
  
“Does France compare to the Orkneys? I don’t think it does.”  
  
“No,” Hermione murmured, her smile widening to a grin of pure pleasure. “I suppose it doesn’t compare at all.”  
  
“Correct,” trilled Luna, mumbling to herself as she stuck her hand into her shoulder bag and fished around inside. “Here,” she said, producing a small figurine of a fulmar in flight. “Your Portkey. It’s not to the cottage itself, mind – it’ll bring you into an old loo in Scrabster for the ferry.”  
  
“An old loo? You’re too kind,” Hermione deadpanned, snorting.  
  
Luna tilted her head, her lips curving just slightly to the left. “I think so. Anyway – come anytime this week. Don’t leave it later; Michael mentioned something about strikes coming up. I’ll Apparate out tomorrow, so it’s yours from then.”  
  
“Michael now, is he? Not just ‘vegetable man’?”  
  
The younger witch flushed a light, becoming pink. “Michael’s his name, that’s who he is, and that’s enough out of you.”  
  
Miming zipping her lips, Hermione tossed away the key and pulled Luna into another hug, squeezing her and giving in to the urge to sway. “You’re too good to me, love. So, so good to me. Thank you.”  
  
With a light, tinkling laugh, her friend of countless years stepped away and made for the door. “Thank me when you return home. I think this will be good for you, Hermione. Just remember what I said.”  
  
She was out the door before Hermione could call her back, and the witch sat down on the end of her bed with a sigh. Luna’s instructions were as they always were: stay open, with heart and mind. She wasn’t sure that it was entirely possible; openness had given her nothing but loneliness thus far, and it was tempting to shut herself in and hide away instead of inviting life in again.  
  
But she would try.  
  
Hermione let herself fall onto the bed, turning to where her suitcase was half-open on the floor.  _Yes,_  she thought with a smile. She could certainly try.  
  
.  
.  
  
_Hermione,  
  
Are you settled in? Have you enjoyed your first week? I’ve been following the online news – no storms thus far, but listen closely if one does occur. Anything but the normal creaks and groans needs a renewal on the stability charms on the house and the cliffs. I’m writing this assuming that you kept my instructions and didn’t set them aside in favour of my bookcases…  
  
And also, darling, a guest has made a booking for the next three weeks. He’ll be there on Wednesday.  
  
With love and light,  
  
Luna.  
  
/  
  
Luna, darling,  
  
You could have given me more notice! Have no fear - I’m up to my arse in baking. Hope your mystery guest likes fresh bread. He’ll (really? You’re shutting me up with a man for three weeks? Luna…) be here in a handful of hours. I rang the ferry terminal in Scrabster, but they wouldn’t tell me if he’d boarded or not. Did you know that Legilimency doesn’t work over the phone? Well, it doesn’t.  
  
Somehow I’ve got to decide what to cook for his dinner, then I assume dessert. Good thing Michael popped by yesterday – he brought some lovely strawberries. He said you’re allergic, and you haven’t let him plant any.  
  
You must tell me, when did you acquire this allergy? I’m writing this whilst recalling sharing strawberries and cream with you the last time we broke in a bottle of white. Methinks the lady doth protest too much…  
  
With love and baking powder,  
  
Hermione. _  
  
.  
.  
  
Light was shining through the front door of the house. I had passed over the wards; they were subtle and well made, and even the most attuned Muggle wouldn’t have sensed them. There was no telling just what sort of dwelling it was – it was too pronounced on the land to be Magical. With narrowed eyes, I scanned the outside of the house; only a faint shimmer indicated some sort of charm upon it. It was tempting to discover what it was, but three weeks were laid out before me and they were irresistible in their utter blank form. I had no plans save moving through each day tranquilly – or as close to it as I could get.  
  
I had not yet connected my knuckles with the door. Awkwardly, I cast an eye over my clothing; cloak, coat, trousers, boots. Having stopped in Spinner’s End for a week, they were not my usual castle garb, yet it was similar enough to offer slight comfort.  
  
Once, twice, thrice; I rapped on the dark wooden door. Through the two panes of glass, a woman approached, and she was bathed in warm, golden light. For a fleeting moment, I entertained the idea of returning home from a journey; the woman was my own, and the horrid, haphazard curls piled on her head belonged to—  
  
Hermione Granger pulled open the door, met my horrified gaze, and gasped.  
  
The last thought that spun through my mind before my face fell was that even with a streak of flour on her tanned cheek, she was lovely.  
  
.  
.  
  
“Headmaster! Oh, I— _oh!_ ” Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. She was mortified – he was here, and he was so terribly disappointed; his thin lips were downturned, his face was hard. There were no tender feelings present in his face at all. Her surprise—and excitement, she recognised—plummeted. He didn’t want her to be here. He didn’t want to be  _here_  with  _her_.  
  
Pride forced her to offer him a smile, though she knew it was more of a grimace. “Welcome,” she said firmly, stepping back. He scowled, turning to glance over his shoulder at the town, then returned to look at her again.  
  
“Professor Granger,” he said stiffly. “I apologise.” Grimly, the Headmaster crossed his arms. “If you would only provide me with the timetable, I’ll be on the next—”  
  
It seemed like the worst idea in the world. At that moment, it struck her that it  _was_  the worst idea in the world. She was filled with a strange energy that was entirely focused on making sure that the scowling, hesitant man on the doorstep came inside and stayed there.  
  
“I won’t,” she blurted, ignoring the way his black eyes widened. “It’s—it’s—there are strikes!” she managed, sure that he was, at some level, becoming amused. “There are strikes, or there might be, and I’ve made up your bed and stocked the ice-box. I’ve got dinner on. Stay.”  
  
Severus shifted on his feet; he was still frowning, but he was lingering, not leaving, and she grasped the opportunity with both hands.  
  
“Stay, Severus. Please.” Then, softening her voice: “Come inside – this is your home now, as well as mine. Come in.”  
  
Quietly, and with a decisiveness that stole her breath, Severus Snape bowed his head and took one step forward. He directed his next words to his black dragon-hide boots. “I have a booking for three weeks. Is that…”  
  
“It’s on,” she said immediately, thrilling to it. “You’re my only guest. Come on, come inside. Come in out of the wind.”  
  
He looked at her when she said this, and she realised that surely he’d never truly looked at her before; if he had, it’d never been like  _this_. His dark gaze was like fire, and Hermione reached out a hand to the wall, steadying herself. The Headmaster’s eyes darted to her fingers, then returned to meet her own.  
  
“Very well,” he murmured, and his deep voice slid into her, warming her until she smiled widely. She moved aside; he stepped through the door.  
  
.  
.  
  
The first night was awkward at best. Though Midsummer had not long passed, the wind had taken a cold turn and Professor Granger— _Hermione_ —served a simple meal of pasta and rich, red wine. She dithered after setting the plate down with accompanying herb bread; in the end, the witch shrugged and sat at the place beside me. The wall of the dining room was all glass and the sea stretched out below, glittering under the sun that would not properly set for some time yet. The sky was burning; purples, reds, greys. We sat together in the eventide, and I could not begin to fathom how I had even come to be here with her on the island.  
  
Even inside, I could taste the air; the salt of the sea was present in my own plain yet homely room of white bedding and dark wooden furniture, and here in the dining room, it surrounded us. It was ethereal.  
  
“I hope this is all right,” she commented, smiling nervously. “If you’d prefer your privacy—”  
  
“No,” I muttered, reaching for my cutlery after she’d picked up her own. “I haven’t the faintest of how these things are supposed to work, but there’s no use in putting yourself out for m—”  
  
Hermione pointedly cleared her throat. I recognised the sound from observing her classes now and then; to this day, I still haven’t decided whether I should have been disgruntled by it or not. Bemused was closer to the truth at the time.  
  
Distractedly, I eyed a faint patch of roughness on the white tablecloth.  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I recognise that you might have come with your own designs about how to spend your time here. And I don’t at all want to intrude on what you may have planned… Although…” Here she paused, and I held my breath. She sipped her wine and I raised my own glass to my lips, swirling the pleasant heaviness with my tongue before swallowing.  
  
“Although, I’d like to join you. When you’d feel all right with that, that is,” she amended, twisting pasta around her fork. “What I mean to say is: I enjoy spending time with you, and if you’re not averse to it, then—”  
  
I wished then that I knew what thoughts were in her mind, but there was no hope of that. Cutting her off, I said firmly, “I am not averse to your company. In fact I…” Hesitantly, I turned my gaze away from her curious dark eyes to the sea.  
  
“You?” she prompted. Silver cutlery clinked.  
  
The honesty came swathed in hesitation. “I would welcome it,” I admitted. Was there ever any question of saying otherwise? I glanced at her flushed cheeks and shy smile, fascinated with how her errant frizzy curls were piled up so artlessly. She wore white and denim, and I recognised a hunger brewing within the depths of my very soul.  
  
Hermione made a soft humming sound in agreement; I turned my attention to dinner.  
  
“This is good,” I grunted, remembering how she so liked to be praised.  
  
Even as a Professor, she beamed at one good word during staff appraisals. I could count the amount of times on one hand that I’d offered her such praise during my tenure as Headmaster, but there were times that I’d catch a secretive, delighted smile upon her lips and wonder what on earth it was that I’d said to make her smile so. As a teacher, she was pleasantly unremarkable – this is a good thing, when one is consumed by paperwork, Board demands and Ministry evading.  
  
Upon hiring her, I’d gritted my teeth, expecting to fend off her questions and comments and impertinent remarks. The woman thwarted me, for I received none at all. I had come to believe that this was a result of two things: my own stubbornness, having attached to her a personality that she’d long outgrown, and her quiet determination to either prove me wrong or simply remind me that my views—and myself, probably—were outdated.  
  
The reminder that she was indeed my subordinate did its job to lessen my interest in how the candlelight displayed vibrant chestnuts and gold in her hair, but ultimately it was futile. Both fortunately—and unfortunately, when one considers the object of my attraction—I did not have a reputation for nepotism nor, indeed, passionate love affairs. If a miracle occurred and the Board themselves found us stark naked on the Head’s desk, I have no doubt that they’d simply mutter about the cost of cleaning the rosewood.  
  
At the table, she said not a word, though I did not fail to see how she pressed her lips together, pleased.  
  
When I lay in bed two short hours later, I closed my eyes and thought of that fleeting look of satisfaction. The ocean was swirling, curling, and it echoed the desire that commanded my body until my hand trailed down, down, down my chest and cupped the hard evidence of the power she unknowingly held over me.  
  
.  
.  
  
At seven the next morning, Hermione checked her watch before wiping down the kitchen counters for the third time. Her guest had still not ventured downstairs; thanks to the thick walls, she had no chance of even eavesdropping to check for the rustle of a turning page or his footsteps moving about. She clutched her second cup of coffee for the morning, vowing to disobey Luna’s stern orders the next day and sleep in until at least six forty five. Still, it was treat to watch the dawn announce itself.  
  
When the skies were clear and blue, she heard the pipes groaning. Grinning, she filled the kettle.  
  
To say that it was bizarre to find herself making coffee in a B&B for the Headmaster was an understatement. He was quiet – almost unnervingly so, but that wasn’t unexpected. What  _was_  unexpected was the apparent ease with which he’d taken to her company. Over the years, she’d sat herself beside him at the Head Table merely a handful of times, and only if Minerva was away. More practical than idealistic these days, Hermione had felt triumphant from the welcoming nod of his head; his silence was expected. Here, though, on the island…  
  
Pensively, she sliced a knife through a fresh loaf of bread. The evening before had been… not blissful, not perfect, but… comfortable. It’d been full of awkward silences and not a small amount of terrible jokes—from her end, of course—yet she could not deny that she found him arresting. She always had, though it had been an observation made from a distance; whether or not the rumours about Harry’s mother rang true, to her he was a man that was comfortable being alone.  
  
Without the heavy robes and constant work forcing his shoulders to stoop and his brow to furrow, Severus seemed lighter, more at ease. He’d come to the table in only a formal black shirt and trousers, and instead of keeping her eyes on the magnificent ocean, she’d found herself staring at the broad set of his shoulders and his long, pale fingers. His hair, too, caused something within her belly to flip; at the castle, he wore it pulled back in a clip and she was often none the wiser as to its true length thanks to his loose robes of the same colour.  
  
She’d been surprised to find that the long strands hung past his shoulders, ending beneath his shoulder-blades. And more than that, she’d been stunned to register a craving to run her fingers through that soft, ebony hair; to wind it around her wrists; to feel it sliding over her breasts. In the bath after he’d gone up for bed, Hermione had sunk down and let her hair flow out and around her face, resembling something like a never-ending nest of frizz and curls. She’d touched herself then, the base of her palm pressing down on her clitoris as she imagined bathing with him, the water swirling his long strands of ink and mixing them with hers.  
  
When she slept, Hermione dreamt of a man underwater; a selkie, perhaps, or a merman – she’d woken and forgotten. His hair was long and black, and his chest was lean and white as winter snow. The only memory that had carried upon her waking was of gleaming dark eyes and thin lips wrapped around her nipples, suckling in time with the swirl of the sea above them.  
  
With effort, the subject was set aside for later scrutiny.  
  
Frowning, Hermione poured milk into a small jug for the breakfast tray then swore under her breath as it spilled out underneath.  
  
“Bugger,” she muttered, drawing her wand to repair the crack. She wiped the tray and started again; whether or not she then reached for a flower from the vase on the bench to add to his tray was entirely her own business. Only moments later, his boots were causing the stairs to creak.  
  
“Good morning, Headmaster,” she greeted him cheerfully, reluctant to venture into unfamiliar territory by anything less formal. For all she knew, he’d gone to sleep annoyed at the prospect of spending three weeks in her company. The half-smile he threw her said otherwise.  
  
“Hermione,” he returned, dithering at the door. “Shall I…?”  
  
One had to walk through the kitchen to enter the living and dining area that boasted of the floor to ceiling windows.  
  
She looked anywhere but at the grey jumper that clung to his upper body. His hair was braided back and for the first time, she saw that even his dragon-hide boots sported buttons on the side.  
  
Hermione swallowed, suddenly off-kilter. “Oh, no, there’s nothing to be done here. I hope you’re hungry. Luna offers a full Scottish breakfast, so that’s what you’re having.”  
  
Severus eyed the beans in the pan and shrugged. “Whatever you wish is fine. I’ll be…” The sentence went unfinished as he headed into the dining area. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; she hadn’t quite understood just how hard it would be to ignore her attraction to her superior, but it hit her with full force as she made their breakfast.  
  
The doors in the other room opened and closed; he was outside, then, sitting at the small table and chairs. Staring at the view, she reckoned, and smiled to herself. If she put enough effort into the ruse, she could even trick herself into believing that he was her lover, and they’d booked the place to have entirely to themselves.  
  
It couldn’t be further from the truth. Disappointed with reality, Hermione yanked the pan away from the stove, embarrassed that she’d almost let it burn.  
  
She managed to sit with him for breakfast, though it was with relief that she excused herself to visit the town. To her faint surprise, Severus asked to borrow the car to see some of the sights; she acquiesced, eager to treat herself to the short walk to Stromness. Perhaps gathering wildflowers by the road would serve to force her body not to ache for the black-haired man.


	2. Part 2

Well I tried to control it  
And cover it up  
I reached out to console it  
It was never enough

So I tried to forget it  
That was all part of the show  
Told myself I'd regret it  
But what do I know?

_Damien Rice_

  
  
**Part Two**  
  
From the red car parked slightly at an odd angle, Hermione knew that he was inside. She stood near the road and batted ineffectually at her hair then gave up and instead waved at the old white van approaching. A box of shrunken bottles of red was in her pocket.  
  
“Morning,” she called to the man as he nodded gruffly and shouldered the heavy box of fruit and veg. Michael was tall with a weathered, wind-worn face; with his unkempt brown mop of curls and calloused hands, he was the opposite of Luna’s delicate beauty. It was a sight to appreciate, however, and Hermione crossed her arms and watched as he set the box down beside the door.  
  
“Need me t—” He stopped and rubbed at the back of his neck. “’Spose you don’t. Mornin’.”  
  
“The same to you,” she said, grinning at the shy, quiet man. By the time her smile faded, he was already back in the van and heading into Stromness. She watched the vehicle for as long as she could, though her mind was already on the man inside.  
  
“Were you successful, Professor?”  
  
Tensing with surprise, she turned to see Severus standing in the open doorway. He was smirking—nothing new there—and the wind thrust its way through the door, whipping midnight strands around his face.  
  
Withdrawing the box from her pocket, she smiled widely. “Behold the fruits of my labour. Where did you go?”  
  
“Drove to Kirkwall.” His language was slowly becoming less formal the longer he spent with her. “I bought whisky.”  
  
“I have whisky,” she reminded him primly, slipping past him and into the house. If she slid closer to him than need be, he didn’t appear to notice. “I have good whisky – I think.”  
  
“Yes,” he said, following her, “but I’m on holiday. Holidaying in the Orkneys – goes without saying that I should be purchasing whisky.”  
  
Throwing him a smirk over her shoulder, Hermione placed the box on the kitchen bench and reversed the spell. Twelve dusty bottles of some of the pub’s finest red stood proudly on the gleaming marble. Severus’ grunt was deep and approving.  
  
“Whisky and red,” he commented, sucking in a breath. “Recipe for trouble.”  
  
“Oh,” she drawled, arching an eyebrow, “I don’t know about that.”  
  
.  
.  
  
As a teacher, Granger could be described as a second Minerva, with slight adjustments. Fierce yet fairer than my Deputy, she remains a woman that refuses to take any shite whatsoever. When she gave me that look, with those narrowed, smirking eyes, I confess that I was utterly taken in. I’ve always had an interest in women who could walk all over me in high-heeled boots then comfort me afterwards.  
  
Perhaps not literally.  
  
Although I’ve never tested it – it could be literal.  
  
I thought: I could love a woman like this.  
  
.  
.  
  
She retreated for the afternoon, but soon enough I heard her pottering around in the kitchen as she prepared the evening meal. Her voice was light and clear as she sung to herself, though it was a trifle to convince myself that she was singing for me. Even the scent of the succulent roast served to heighten the images in my mind: a smiling Hermione, her hair thrown into a clip that barely held it back; her song; the low click of her heels on the kitchen floor.  
  
Not for me was this, but my bedroom was quiet and the sounds from downstairs were far more beguiling than the book that stayed open on my lap, forgotten.  
  
.  
.  
  
We dined outside under the cover of a wind that had been softened by well-cast charms, and I spent the entire meal pondering the question of how I’d been her superior for five years and missed how desirable she was. Though we worked together, we moved in different circles: she with Minerva or the younger Professors, while I tended to take my afternoon teas with Poppy or Rolanda. Our paths would cross, though in a chaotic boarding school, such events were forgettable. Truth be told, even if I were to notice her, it would’ve slid away, driven to the wayside by common sense and pragmatism. And if further ground must be dug into, I can admit that when she came for the interview, something within me warmed to her passionate, easy smiles. But five years are five years, and I had dismissed the thoughts of her almost as soon as she’d left the interview.  
  
Granger wasn’t any of the adjectives that would throw a man off; she was lovely, and when the sun glinted in her hair, she was beautiful. Her skin was pale, but give her a day or so outside and it tanned to a colour that made me curious as to how it would look beside my own body. Her voice, sharp though it was, could spin a web of intelligence. Her eyes spoke volumes.  
  
I knew all of this – I had categorised her long ago as attractive and interesting, but for anything further? I had, simply, missed it. Missed all of it.  
  
It may have left me feeling oblivious and stupid, but we were surrounded by sky and wind and ocean. We dined, and the blue water fought under our gazes. Instead of kicking my own arse for barely seeing her over the years, I was focused on her mouth.  
  
I had expected to talk of research or the tedious process of publishing.  
  
“Is that all you think I’m good for?” she said teasingly when I asked if she’d brought work to the house. “Research and books?”  
  
“It is an appropriate topic of conversation for two colleagues, is it not?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Sounds quite dull to me.” She pushed her hair behind her ears for the thousandth time. The full strength of the wind was held back by charms, but it still buffeted. “If I wanted to know about your own endeavours, I could check your staff profile in the newsletter.”  
  
“Would you?” I asked steadily. “Perhaps the better question is: have you?”  
  
She blinked, as unprepared as I was for the bluntness of my question. Granger changed tactic, and I was grateful—if somewhat disconcerted—for it.  
  
“Tell me where you’ve been so far,” she demanded, taking a tip of wine. “I’m sure that Luna wrote up a little program for you, but so far I’ve managed to lose just about all of her instructions.”  
  
I gave a short, sharp laugh. She was proving indeed that we could have a fairly pleasant conversation, though it was tempting to head in rather than put effort into avoiding how attractive I found her.  
  
“I brought a guide book with me,” I said, digging in my pocket for the volume. “There wasn’t much in Flourish  & Blotts.”  
  
“Where’d you find it, then?” She took the thin book and leafed through it.  
  
“Waterstones. Apparently I should look into getting an internet connection and searching on the line, but it seems more trouble than it’s worth.”  
  
Granger looked at me directly and snorted. “Online, Severus, and it’s really quite easy. Want me to show you? Luna’s addicted.”  
  
“Online, then,” I allowed, inclining my head. “And, no. Another time, perhaps.”  
  
“Now,” she said next, setting her fork down. “What’s another appropriate topic of conversation?”  
  
“How you ended up here,” I replied immediately, too curious to restrain my interest.  
  
As she chewed, she nodded to acknowledge the question. Clearing her throat, she said, “Luna had the opportunity to see her father in France. Since the war, he’s preferred to travel rather than stay home.” Hermione paused, tapping one delicate fingernail to her lips as she compiled her words. I glanced at her moist lower lip, and turned my gaze to the ocean.  
  
“Luna still… that is, I think there will always be something missing between the two of them now. They love each other fiercely, but he is passionate about not regretting doing everything he could to retrieve her during the war. She prefers to distance herself from the entire memory of it all, but he fixates on it when he visits. She keeps the house in England, see, so he can stay there when he stops in from time to time. And that house has many ghosts for the both of them. She jumped at the chance to see him on the Continent.”  
  
“He doesn’t come here?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “I don’t think so. This is her sanctuary.”  
  
Snorting, I offered a quiet, “She told me it was about Brexit. I’m glad to know that’s as farfetched as I thought it was.”  
  
Hermione grinned. “Oh, no. It was about that, too. She’s got a feeling about how the vote’s going to go. It pays to remember that Luna can have many reasons for doing things, and it’s not lying if she tells you one and not the other.”  
  
“She would have been at home in my House.”  
  
“Do you think so? I don’t.”  
  
I shifted in my chair, away from the ocean and giving her my full attention. “My House as it is today,” I allowed, knowing it was true. “As for your schooling years… she does not have the heart for cold subterfuge.”  
  
“Not that they were all involved then, either!” Hermione countered. I reached for the bottle of wine and filled our glasses.  
  
“But I do know what you mean,” she said. “She’s a sensitive person. The atmosphere of the House then would’ve been hard on her. Not that Ravenclaw was much better. Too dismissive,” she tacked on succinctly.  
  
“Indeed.” Unsure of how to navigate the conversation now that it was slowly lowering down into personal depths, I hunched my shoulders and rubbed my hands together. The wine was more than adequate; I drank it quickly, preferring to stomach its warmth rather than savour it on my tongue. The charms were faltering, sending wind cutting into my cheeks.  
  
Hermione leant forward, and the touch of her hand on my arm warmed my body; being unfamiliar with both the witch and women in general, I saw nothing in it.  
  
“Are you cold, Severus?” she asked, brow wrinkling with concern.  
  
Amused, I turned the question around. “Aren’t you? But yes. Thank you for dinner, Professor. I shall retire now, and—”  
  
“Oh, it’s barely evening!” she said quickly, fingers curling. I stared at where she still held onto my arm, bewitched by her small, sun-kissed fingers. They looked pale; the black of my sleeve swallowed each delicate appendage. There was the flash of a thought about sucking them into my mouth, feeling the pad of her index finger with my tongue; disregarding it was effortless, given the obvious impossibility of her returning what I was beginning to recognise was tenderness.  
  
Still, though, there was a colour to her nails that answered my initial question. Without thinking, I reached for her, and covered her small, cold hand. She breathed in sharply and I flinched, caught between shock at my daring act and focusing on each tiny ridge on her knuckles.  
  
Deflecting my thoughts and the woman by the simple act of standing, I let go of her hand and felt the loss keenly.  
  
“Goodnight, Hermione,” I murmured.  
  
Her lips pursed. She looked up at me for a long moment, then turned back to the sea.  
  
“Goodnight, Severus,” she said softly.  
  
.  
.  
  
That night I stood by the window across from the bed and watched the figure of a woman standing near the very edge of the cliff. Her long, tussled hair whipped around her body; she did not attempt to restrain it. It snaked around her body, caressing her waist, her breasts.  
  
Hermione stood there for over an hour as the sky finally darkened, and I watched her without reserve, hidden as I was. I wondered what she was thinking of, standing in the roaring, ferocious wind; a lover? It seemed unlikely. Her life? Possible, though I knew enough of her to know that she was content.  
  
Her arms hugged her body. I considered going to her; I would take the wine glass that she held, and send it back to the kitchen. I would hold her to my chest, my arms around her body; she would be cradled there, warm, as she watched over the seas like a goddess monitoring her maritime domain.  
  
Would she welcome me? Would her breath quicken? Would she turn in my arms, rest her chin on my chest, and stare at my lips with her wide, dark eyes?  
  
A man could dream.  
  
.  
.  
  
She had been out there thinking of the men that had passed by her. The term was more nautical than anything other women may have used, but it did seem like that. They’d come into her life, stay for a while, and then inevitably, either one would drift away. Hermione thought it was because she was already full. She was content, with life and knowledge and work, and thus far a man had only been something to pencil in for weekend evenings. When one remarked that she had more time for fiction than she had for him, she’d barely even managed to catch herself before responding that at least it was more titillating than preparing for dates that were perfunctory at best. She stood near the cliff edge and watched the waters, considering whether she ought to make more of an effort to seem interesting to the Headmaster. Perhaps they’d never established a true friendship because she gave off the vibe that she didn’t need one.  
  
Although, she realised, it wasn’t like Minerva was any different. And Poppy. Hooch, too. In fact, Severus appeared to be a man that was at home with that – enjoyed the distinctions between separate lives, and enjoyed how they merged and separated according to each person’s wishes.  
  
Hermione turned, and saw the flash of a curtain closing in the bedroom window upstairs. She smiled to herself.  
  
.  
.  
  
On the fourth day, Hermione would have argued but Severus persisted. Really, she was a terrible host – only days after Severus had arrived, he was putting together breakfast while she was checking the B&B’s email in the study. There were no wizarding bookings in the tray near the window that owls had long learned to deposit them in, though she found an email from a pair of Muggle women coming to the island for the first time. With efficiency that she wished she had in other areas of her life, Hermione muttered Luna’s instructions to herself while she checked the diary on the wall and pencilled in the guests.  
  
She then turned her attention back to the computer and typed a return email slowly and carefully. The slow pace lit her ire – she was wholly unused to being so inept, but technology was moving faster than she could keep up with it during previous summers.  
  
Swearing under her breath, she growled with frustration.  
  
“Problem?”  
  
She ignored him. He would be leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, smirk in place. That infernal eyebrow would be cocked, and she’d have to look at it and know that it would be highly inappropriate to run her tongue along it.  
  
“No,” grumbled Hermione, only halfway through the message. He chuckled as she continued to type, letter by painstaking letter. It was this that she disliked – there was no venom in it, but she was still insecure enough to flinch at his amusement. Her own years at the school were long enough in the past to be disregarded most days, but this man seemed to wreak havoc on her sensibilities.  
  
“Breakfast is ready,” he said eventually. “On second thought, perhaps you  _should_  teach me how to use that thing. I could leave a review; say something about how I was forced to fend for myself, no hostess in sight…”  
  
“Bah!” Hermione threw her hands up and hauled herself out of the chair. She marched over to where he was lounging by the door. He was taller than her by more than she’d ever bother to measure; it irked her, the way his black eyes glittered as he grinned down at her. There was something wolfish, something roguish, about that grin.  
  
“I can’t work with you… with you…”  
  
He rubbed at his mouth, failing to rid his lips of that damnable grin. “With me…?”  
  
She couldn’t play his game – she had no idea what the game even  _was_. But Hermione knew what she  _wanted_  it to be. Drawing breath, she took a step towards him and stuck her neck out, bringing her as close to his face as she could without standing on her toes. His eyes widened; there was barely a hair’s breadth between their bodies.  
  
She knew he’d never believe her honesty, and it was there that she hid behind. “I can’t work with you here distracting me,” she drawled flatly. “Your good looks and charm just drive me wild.”  
  
The mistake was evident almost immediately. He did not blink; the grin left his mouth, and his eyes were blank, shuttered. He was  _hurt_ , she realised, and it was then that she knew a deep feeling of desperate mortification.  
  
“Oh, Severus,” she began, holding a hand over her mouth, “I didn’t mean that. I didn’t—that is, I don’t—”  
  
“It’s all right,” he said decisively. He moved away from her and gave her a formal half-bow. “As I said: breakfast is ready. I’ll keep it under a stasis charm.” He smiled at her then, a short curve of his lips – she’d only said the exact words that Poppy or Minerva might throw at him, but somehow Hermione knew that he’d taken them very, very differently when spoken by her.  
  
_Interesting_ , she mused as he turned and led the way back to the kitchen. Could she have bothered him? Was it because… could it be because he had been harbouring—  
  
No. Surely not.  
  
“Shall we walk today?” she asked as they sat down at the table. He’d cooked a simple fare of toast and eggs, but coffee was steaming in the mugs and her customary splash of milk had already been added. She fought a flush of pleasure at how he remembered the way she took her morning cup. “This looks wonderful, by the way. Lucky me!”  
  
Judging by the way he chuckled, she was laying it on thick. “A walk, yes. I should like that.”  
  
“Is there anything you want to see?”  
  
He hummed pensively. She waited while he swallowed and washed the mouthful down with coffee.  
  
“After being at the school for so long, I do not miss the trees. The Forest is always there; ever-changing, ever-mysterious, but always there. But there aren’t many trees here. I want to see… I want to get to a higher point. It’s curious, don’t you think? A land without trees.”  
  
“It is,” she agreed, aware that her interest in him was beginning to turn into something else. “It’s the wind. Or at least, I assume it is. Luna’s worked on it a bit though – I remember that she was a part of planting a few years ago. There’s definitely some more near Kirkwall. You would’ve seen them, I presume.”  
  
“I did. But here…” He trailed off and gestured around them, turning along with his hand so she was presented with his face in profile. She bit her lip, searching for anything to allay the slowly rising desire; surprisingly, the sight of the harsh angles of his face only served to increase the feelings within her. She found him beautiful – harsh, arresting, striking, yes, but beautiful. She was sure that he had no equal.  
  
Finally following his eyes, she glanced around at the grass that surrounded the house. “Well, yes. This is true. Let’s do it then,” she announced, clapping her hands. “And we can go to the beach, too.”  
  
At his panicked look, she disregarded sense and thought and reached across the table for his hand. “The water’s far too cold for swimming in, but with a jacket we can go to Skaill for beachcombing. I think you’ll like it, Severus. Just for a walk.” It was daring, and if they were anywhere else, she wouldn’t have even asked. But Hermione could no more resist tempting him to go than she could deny herself the chance to walk beside him by the ocean, using the excuse of spying artefacts to spend the morning with him.  
  
He frowned at her hand on his wrist; she kept her face very still as she retreated, though her stomach roiled.  
  
“What do you think?” she said determinedly. “I’ll shout you a drink on the way home.”  
  
Severus leaned back in his chair and snorted. “Careful, Professor Granger – I will expect you to be a witch of your word.”  
  
“I am that,” she said, smiling openly. “Come on! Are you finished?”  
  
He wasn’t, and so she gulped down the rest of her coffee and took her plate into the kitchen, grabbing a cooler bag as she did so. Luna lived in a constant dance between Magical and Muggle – she had no immediate neighbours, but she was certainly known in Stromness. Whether or not the local population had their own opinions of the fair-haired witch, Hermione intended to follow Luna’s advice and keep to the non-Magical side of things when venturing out of the B&B.  
  
Making quick work out of it, she soon had the bag full of supplies for a morning out. One Weightless charm later, and she was leaving it on the counter to check her appearance over in the bathroom.  
  
Critically, Hermione eyed her jeans and comfortable boots. It might do to change her brown blouse, but—  
  
“Are you about done in there?” Severus called, and she shrugged at her reflection.  
  
_What will be, will be,_  she thought, recalling Luna’s promise of openness. She grinned once, widely and impishly, then trotted down the stairs.  
  
.  
.  
  
The walk over the hills was warm at first; the sun shone down upon the two. When they reached the highest hill she had been able to find, they spied rain falling in the distance, though it would not reach where they were walking, head down against the wind. Severus’ face was white as a sheet from the force of the gusts, and Hermione laughed from the sheer impossibility of the weather.  
  
She took any excuse to watch him; indeed, she stole the moments, drinking in the sight of his lean body as he shed his jacket. Even his scowl endeared him to her, for he removed and then replaced his jacket once, twice, and double that, and Hermione gave tiny gurgles of laughter that only grew and grew. By the time they gave in and he accepted her offered arm to Apparate them to the beach, he was glowering and she was beaming.  
  
.  
.  
  
The beach was mesmerising. As the waves forced their way onto the rocks, it was effortless to imagine Skaill in the past. I had seen the romantic nods to Viking history throughout my morning walks around Stromness and Kirkwall, but it was here that I truly began to taste the salt air on my tongue, to breathe in the wind, the sea. We stood shoulder to shoulder together before the shore, hands in the pockets of sturdy jackets made for the weather. She told me what she knew of the history that surrounded us, and I listened to her voice, glad when she began to talk of other things.  
  
Before the rolling waves, I was a small man. My worries were miniscule; my attraction to the witch was reduced to nothingness in front of the evidence that I was but one man amidst the strength of nature.  
  
I had ached for this. For too long, I had sat atop the Headmaster’s tower and allowed myself to be the figurehead of all that we had gained. I had—begrudgingly—attended the commemorations held each five years. I had—with grinding teeth—watched one Minister take office, and accepted his handshake as if it bore meaning. Yet another Minister had been sworn in during the years, though by then I had already retreated further into the school. Then and now heralded no desire to take part in society’s fierce need to forgive themselves. Forgiveness did not come to me, though I had long set that heavy, iron-weighted mantle down.  
  
In front of the vast sea, the world was quiet. Hermione’s hair had come loose, and I felt the strands whipping around my back, as if her hair were claiming me. She smiled sheepishly and gathered it together in her hands in an attempt to restrain it; when it resisted and again splayed on my back, she tipped her face into the sun and laughed without reserve.  
  
I looked down at her closed eyes and smiling lips and allowed myself a faint grin. Even without being wholly aware of her shoulder pressed to mine, I was at ease. And such a feeling was new and welcome though it did nothing to sway the desire that rose within when her dark eyes opened and blinked before my scrutiny.  
  
I retreated then, jerking my chin to her in the direction of the rocks, and she followed with the ridiculous bag that held our food.  
  
“What are we looking for?” I asked, crouching down near the beginning of the spread of pebbles that stretched out onto the beach. I had seen beaches in Scotland before in summer—one could not possibly work with Minerva and not be dragged to Iona from time to time—but the rocks and pebbles and skies of grey were enthralling.  
  
Hermione bent from her waist and looked over the rocks before us. “Bounty,” she answered, her previous laughter clinging to her voice. “Sea glass. Messages in bottles. Driftwood. Oh – that quirky side table in the hallway, do you know it?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Michael made it – Luna’s Michael. He made it from driftwood that they found here one day.”  
  
We meandered around the beach; at first I did not see the allure in searching for treasures when surely a wand would have beckoned them easily. We sat down on the hard sand and ate and spoke together for perhaps an hour—time hurtled past me uncounted—and then she was off again. To avoid her passion was impossible. I sat on a rock and watched her, and all that I came away with when I meandered to her side was that an Orkney rock under the arse was bloody well cold.  
  
But Hermione’s company called to me like a Siren, and I wished to be near her – her delighted coo when I unearthed an old cheeky bottle of Spanish red thrilled both blood and heart.  
  
“This is what I mean!” she exclaimed, carefully taking the bottle from my hands. It had been tucked under wood and rope, glinting in the summer sun. The excitement in her voice carried over the rough wind. “Just imagine – where did this come from? Who drank it? How did it end up in the water?”  
  
I turned slightly, giving her body shelter from the weather. We were close now, and it was inevitable that I would meet her smiling eyes and offer her an awkward half-grin of my own.  
  
“Do you see?” she prompted, stepping closer. “Look.”  
  
I took the bottle and examined it, finding nothing to share with her but a sardonic: “I see rubbish in the sea. It’s a shame.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” she said, elbowing my side. I grunted, and she gave a disarming little gurgle of laughter. “But we’re taking the rubbish away with us, Severus. Just think, though: it was carried here by the currents, carried from somewhere far different than this place. Isn’t it… entrancing?”  
  
I was unmanned. Her smile, her dark eyes, her flushed cheeks… I stared at her. My back was to the ocean, to the sun, and I felt it warming my back but it was  _she_  that heated my body more than anything else. She tucked a strand of hair behind her eyes and looked up at me; the smile slowly left her mouth.  
  
“Entrancing,” I echoed quietly, hardly darling to raise my hand but doing so anyway. Somehow I was outside of myself – I watched, breathless, as my pale hand cupped her cheek and felt the softness of her skin. Her eyelids fluttered; my breath, when it came, was ragged and heavy.  
  
Slowly, hesitantly, I trailed my fingers across her cheek and let my thumb sink into her lower lip. Her lip was full and it gave beneath my calloused touch; the desire I felt then was so painful that it twisted within, taunting me, inviting me to give in. I smoothed my thumb across her lip, watching as a blush rose on her cheeks. What would it be like to kiss her? To feel her mouth on mine, to run my tongue along her lip, following the path that my thumb had left?  
  
My musings were preposterous. I could recall with perfect clarity how she’d made that biting comment about my looks and charms distracting her from work – and even then, it wasn’t so much that. We both of us were awkward in our fledging companionship here on the island. One comment may not have meant what the words dictated, and I could understand that well enough. Yet I didn’t know  _what_  she had meant, and for the sake of harmony in the staff room when we returned to Hogwarts, I turned my face away from her for long enough to slice a silver knife through the delicacy of the moment.  
  
I stepped back, relinquishing her lip. There was silence between us.  
  
Hermione kept her eyes on me as she brought her hand to her mouth. It was just the moment, and I commanded myself to believe it. There was the sea and the wind and the endless skies, and I’d had a hold on her lip. I’d reached for her, and I’d touched her in a compulsive movement that would have been better left alone.  
  
I could not speak, but she heard me well enough.  
  
“Shall we go?”  
  
I nodded once, unsure and off-kilter. I wanted to touch her again. I wanted to kiss her.  
  
I wanted many things, and I had no sense at all of how to navigate the changes occurring between us.  
  
We Apparated back to the house separately. Hermione went straight for her private quarters on the ground floor—I half-heartedly wanted to ask for the bottle of old Spanish red, but it was tucked securely under her arm—and I made for the stairs and from there, to my room. I ran the bath and grabbed my book from the bedside table.  
  
As a method of distraction, it was entirely ineffective.  
  
.  
.  
  
The next day was bizarre. She wore a black jumper and light blue jeans; I watched her bring out breakfast, and in turn, I was unable to tear my eyes away from where the soft material clung to her breasts. The effort I had made to distance myself from her—stepping back after so foolishly touching her mouth—was for naught. In black, she seemed more minx than woman, and I was unprepared for it.  
  
“I’ll just grab the coffee,” she murmured, setting down the two plates of eggs. And then I was a ruined man, for the sway of her hips and the curve of her backside had me out of the chair and following her in an instant.  
  
“Allow me,” I muttered, passing her into the kitchen. “I should’ve offered.”  
  
Something had occurred for her overnight. Something had kick-started or flipped over dramatically. Hermione made a small, appeased hum under her breath.  
  
“You’re my guest,” said she.  
  
I turned with a mug in each hand. She was eyeing me from the doorway, her arms folded under her breasts. I swallowed.  
  
“Of a sort,” I managed, walking carefully out of the room and away from her all-too-knowing smile. This woman was unnerving; this woman was delectable, unforgettable.  
  
My resolve to avoid her or to at least restrain myself, was crumbling brick by desire-sodden brick.  
  
“I thought we’d go for a pub dinner tonight,” she said as she settled herself at the table after me. Avoiding her direct gaze, I drank deeply from the mug.  
  
“Good,” I pronounced.  
  
“The coffee or the pub?”  
  
“Both,” I said. Then, without thinking: “Isn’t it always both?”  
  
She was cutting her toast into squares; one decisive gesture had bread and egg speared neatly on her fork. “Why, I think that depends,” she said, popping it into her mouth.  
  
“On what?”  
  
Hermione set the cutlery down and laid her palms on the table. Barely cognizant of anything but her steady stare, I lowered the mug to the table.  
  
“On what?” I repeated, impatient.  
  
She smiled. “Usually when it is always  _both_ , it is because both options have the desired outcome. Such outcomes being… not unpleasant experiences. Brilliant experiences, one could say. Even… marvellous. Of course there’s always one exception.”  
  
“And that is?” I held my breath.  
  
Shrugging, Hermione cleared her throat. There was a faint line between her thin brown eyebrows.  
  
“I assume,” she said steadily, “that it depends on whether the party is oblivious to all his or her options.”  
  
“Oblivious?”  
  
Her eyes flicked to mine, then away to the sea. “Indeed,” she whispered, finally taking a sip of her coffee.  
  
Irritated, I finished breakfast without another word. After all, hadn’t it been  _she_  that expressed such negative sentiments about my person? If anyone at the table was oblivious, surely it was not I.  
  
Regardless – it mattered not. I had nothing invested in whatever game she was playing, save gasping into a silenced room each night as I entertained thoughts of her body and mind.  
  
I had nothing invested in her at all.  
  
.  
.  
  
Hermione had not thought of how to guide her emotions through a rejection; she hadn’t prepared for it. It hadn’t even entered into her mind that she might encounter a man on her holiday that would touch her cheek and lips, and stare at her so, and then back away with a face that flamed with mortification.  
  
Still, though, she was pleased with herself. So far she had managed to treat Severus politely, and she hoped—though it was a small hope—that they would be able to maintain their kind and distant relationship at work upon their return. They were adults; surely it wasn’t too much to hope that they could each act like one.  
  
Hermione sighed and shoved her hands into the soft pockets of her thick grey cardigan. She’d left the B&B on foot not long after breakfast; now, she sat on an old stile atop a hill. Hoy loomed in the distance; grey clouds were gathering above. It was the wrong weather for a walk, but that was what charms were for.  
  
Shivering, she cast another warming charm on her body and huddled into the cardigan. Despite her best efforts, her thoughts were still of the Headmaster – was he in the B&B? Had he departed it as she had, in hope of not seeing her again before dinner?  
  
Had she been a fool to invite him to dinner?  
  
“No,” she mumbled to herself, free to speak with no-one but the wind to hear her. “This is the last time. If nothing happens, then nothing happens.”  
  
But then, if nothing happened… should she not try and  _make_  it happen?  
  
Impossibly, excitement sparked rather than hesitation. Gasping, Hermione stood abruptly and stumbled back the way she had come. Her heart was racing within her chest.


	3. Part 3

So come let me love you  
Come let me love you  
And then… colour me in  
  
Come let me love you  
Come let me take this through the end  
Of all these useless dreams of living  
In all these useless dreams  
All these useless dreams of living  
In all these old noes  
  
Come let me love you.

_Damien Rice_

 

  
  
**Part Three**  
  
There was no sign of him for the rest of the day, but when she heard the click of the front door opening, Hermione checked her reflection and hurried to meet him. The simple wraparound black dress that she wore was entirely a front for how nervous she felt; in the dress, she _looked_ confident. That had to count for something.  
  
“Severus?” she called, finding him about to take the stairs. He turned, clad in his usual black trousers, grey jumper and nondescript jacket. It was satisfying to see his eyes widen and track her body from her boots to her stockinged legs, then up and up and up to the curve of her waist and breasts. Pleased, Hermione put a hand on her hip and smiled gently.  
  
“Are you ready for dinner?” she asked, determined to see the night through. There was a reticence in him that she would need to overcome, but she could do it. She _would_ do it. She could not in good conscience allow them to leave the island without finally admitting the effect he had on her. In truth, Hermione suspected that the feelings she’d harboured had begun to develop into something far deeper than simple attraction. She would not think on that though, not tonight, and she put it out of her mind in favour of concentrating on the way Severus’ eyes were following the movement of her body as she walked towards him.  
  
“Are you?” she asked again, coming to a stop a foot away from him. He smelt of the sea; she wondered if his skin carried the taste of the salt.  
  
He frowned and opened his mouth, then closed it, before finally muttering: “Just… just give me ten minutes. I need a shower.”  
  
“Of course. Where did you go?”  
  
“Today?” he said, tearing his gaze from her and taking the first step towards his room. “Just for a walk.”  
  
“All day?”  
  
“Not that it concerns you, Hermione,” he reminded her, though there was no unkindness in it. Instead his black eyes were almost soft as he considered her there, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him with a smile on her lips. Somehow she knew that his half-hearted reprimand was a cloak of protection for himself; she would not allow him to retreat into it. She watched him steadily, unbothered, and he muttered: “But mostly all day, yes.”  
  
“All right. I’ll be down here when you’re ready to go.” She was breathless, but then he had always made her so – deny it she would always, but the sight of the Headmaster striding through the corridors had always been enough to rid her of both thought and breath.  
  
.  
.  
  
She gave me ten minutes – I was ready in five. I scrubbed my body raw under the hot shower, and all the while I saw her in the back of my mind: a temptress, dressed in soft, clinging black, her hair long and messy and horrid and all things enticing. I wanted to bury my hands in the curls, to place my lips around the tightened buds of her breasts. Under the steady stream of water, my cock hardened but I ignored it ruthlessly, leaving the warmth to rub my hair dry with a towel before hastily turning it on the rest of my body.  
  
I was half-mad with desire for the woman waiting downstairs.  
  
.  
.  
  
There was a glow on her skin in the pub. It was from the low lights, or perhaps a blush that simply refused to budge. She felt it there, as a low-lying heat under her cheeks. They sat at a table near the back of the room; closer to the windows would’ve been nicer, but Stromness was busy on this Friday evening.  
  
Conversations buzzed around the two; there were the at times undecipherable Orkney accent, smooth Scottish lilts, and a Norwegian or three. When Severus asked what she wished to eat, he had to raise his voice above the cacophony. It was hardly romantic or quiet or sensual—the adjectives that she might have hoped for, if she were honest—but, buoyed by the vibrancy of the room, she felt happy and anticipative.  
  
That morning, she’d been disappointed and rash, still smarting from his dismissal of her proximity on the beach. Now, whatever it was that had made Severus step away from her the day before had either lessened, or he’d put it aside for the moment. She didn’t particularly care – he was there, and one way or another, there would be an outcome of sorts at the end of the evening.  
  
The striking black-haired man sitting opposite her must have sensed her confidence, for he stopped asking for her order and simply sat back in the chair and watched her, one side of his mouth curving in a grin.  
  
When he left and took their menus to the bar, she unabashedly chose to examine how his trousers sat snugly on his lean hips, caressing each buttock in the way that she so desperately desired to do with her own hands. It was a struggle not to just follow him – his departure left her feeling lonely, and when he returned, her beatific smile prompted Severus to arch one quizzical eyebrow.  
  
“Something wrong?” he asked, his long fingers busy with tearing up a paper tissue from the box on the table. His eyes flicked between her face and the tiny squares.  
  
“No, no,” she said, unsure of how to guide them to where she wanted them to be. Now that the initial thrill of being at dinner with him had worn off, Hermione found herself anxious. “And how are you?” she tried, wincing.  
  
He bit back a grin. “Well enough,” he answered. “I like this place.”  
  
“The pub?”  
  
“Everywhere. All of it. The island, the pub, the…” Severus gave her a sideways glance. “I like the accommodation. I like the wind, surprisingly enough. I like the weather. I keep thinking I should go somewhere warm one day, but somehow I keep staying in places like this.”  
  
She set her elbow on the table and rested her cheek on her palm. “There’s magic here,” she said in a low undertone, recognising that he’d cast a spell at some point to dim the noise. “It’s… something else, isn’t it? Ancient. Natural. Not like anything you’d really _notice,_ but it’s…”  
  
Severus steepled his fingers and stared at her. “Most places have a form of magic about them. Magic is drawn from the elements. The might of the sea and the sheer nothingness of the sky contains power that will never be found in cities, after all.”  
  
“So why am I only just feeling it here?” she asked curiously.  
  
He looked uncomfortable for a fleeting second. “I presume it is because you are… receptive to it,” he said eventually. The meal arrived then, and both were grateful for the chance to rearrange the table in order to avoid serious conversation for the time being.  
  
Hermione took the chance to gather her thoughts and her intentions. After making quick work of the food—somehow both ate swiftly, and the meal was full of glances at eyes and hands and chests—she cleared her throat. The pub was full now, and patrons were filling all empty spaces. There must have been entertainment planned, though neither witch nor wizard were aware of it.  
  
“I wanted you to kiss me, you know,” she blurted, stunning herself with the words. Hadn’t she had a speech planned about choices and life paths? Hadn’t she been planning to be mature and confident? Christ, but she was about to make a fool of herself.  
  
Severus coughed and stared at her, his black eyes wide in his harsh, pale face. “What did you say?”  
  
She groaned, but then thought better of playing the mortified card. Sod it all – if this wasn’t the man that had haunted her dreams and filled her waking thoughts, then she was no witch.  
  
Gathering her determination, Hermione reached around the plates and touched his hand. He did not look at her, but she felt his fingers creep around her wrist and settle there, holding onto her.  
  
“I had a speech planned,” she began, and he raised his head to meet her gaze. His black eyes were gleaming and his grip on her wrist tightened.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I did. I wanted to be calm and mature and intelligent, and I wanted to confess that I care about you, and I’d very much like to…” Hermione faltered.  
  
“To?” he pressed, voice barely above a whisper.  
  
She bit her lip, hesitant. “I wanted you to kiss me. At the beach yesterday. You were going to – I know you were. You… you touched me _here_ —” She touched her lower lip and pressed down on the pliant flesh; his eyes were riveted on her mouth. “—and I _wanted_ it. I still… That is, I… Why didn’t you kiss me?”  
  
“You wanted me to,” he repeated disbelievingly. She couldn’t comprehend that he was even doubting it.  
  
“Wasn’t it obvious?” she exclaimed, laughing from the shock of it. “God – I think it was obvious.”  
  
He was delightfully shamefaced. “It wasn’t. Or it might have been, but I didn’t really… notice.”  
  
“Really? You didn’t notice? I thought you were observant.”  
  
“Not at the time!” he said; his thumb began to gently rub her wrist, softening his words. “We don’t know each other very well. Beyond our shared history, that is…”  
  
“That’s no fault of mine,” she mumbled, ignoring the musicians that were beginning to set up their equipment near the door. “You’re very aloof, you know.”  
  
He grimaced. “I do. Although I must admit that my temperament is… much improved.”  
  
“Oh, it is _that_ , yes. You’re a wonderful man.”  
  
“What?” Severus leaned forward; his voice was full of intent.  
  
She flushed, unable to put her feelings into words. “I wanted you to kiss me,” she repeated firmly. “Make of that what you will.”  
  
He bowed his head. “You made a joke about my appearance and… ‘charms’. I had assumed…” Shrugging, he said lowly, “I had assumed that you were uninterested.”  
  
It was that. _That_.  
  
 _Now or never._  
  
“Severus.” Hermione smiled awkwardly as a waitress came to remove their plates. With the way clear, she slid her other hand over the table and curled her fingers around his forearm. “I was hiding,” she whispered.  
  
“From whom?” he asked, frowning at her.  
  
Hermione shook her head, her smile widening into a shy grin. “From myself. From you. Honesty seemed like the best policy, and it _was_ honesty... I know how it sounded, but at the time…”  
  
Severus gave a short, hoarse laugh. There was a self-depreciating layer to it, but mostly he appeared unsure of how to continue. “Ah. Right, then.”  
  
“Right,” she echoed, and then whipped her head around to stare at the open door as the air filled with the strong, brash sound of bagpipes starting up. “What on earth?”  
  
“Wait there.” Severus weaved his way through the room to settle the bill then returned as quick as he’d left, holding out his hand. “Come on. I want to see.”  
  
“You want to see?” she said, giggling as he hauled her to her feet. “Aren’t they in here?”  
  
“Come _on,_ Granger,” he demanded, tugging on her hand. He pulled her laughing form through the crowd, past the lone piper in the corner, then out onto the street. Muttering to himself, he darted back in and dropped a few coins into an old velvet-lined box near the equipment. She waited for him, giggling as he returned and shepherded them to a vacant spot in front of the pub. People were bursting out of doorways and shops, craning their necks. Tourists had cameras and phones at the ready.  
  
“Have they got something planned?” Hermione stood on her toes, trying to see. All she could manage was—  
  
“My God – there are more! Did you know about this?”  
  
“Absolutely no bloody idea,” Severus answered, a boyish grin on his lips as he looked down at her. Daringly, he reached out and pulled her to his side, his arm staying hooked around her waist.  
  
Entranced, Hermione watched as the piper from the pub strolled out of the door, his lined face stern as he played. He was joined by four others from various spots on the street, and together the men stood in a group. She might have said it was a bold-as-brass tourist trap, but Hermione found herself moved beyond words by the sound of the bagpipers – it may have been a passing pleasure for the tourists around her, but she felt the music sliding through her very skin, lighting passion in her blood. Her eyes filled with unshed tears and, overwhelmed, she turned into the man at her side, burying her face in his chest. His strong arms closed around her; she smiled, lost in the sensations as she breathed in the rich, spiced scent that clung to his chest.  
  
 _Oh, home,_ she thought, sighing. Here he was, and she wished for nothing else.  
  
.  
.  
  
Soon the music faded; not to the crowd, but to my own mind. She was in my arms, her cheek on my chest. I held her and she filled my arms.  
  
I had not believed that I could have this.  
  
“Hermione,” I murmured, my hands beginning to wander down to her hips. I dug my fingers into the softness there and bent my head to her ear: “Hermione…”  
  
We were surrounded by tourists and residents, all intent on the performance. She stepped slightly away from me and I should have kissed her then but there was something—there was something…  
  
I took her hand again and led her away, threading our way through the thick crowd of bystanders. We might have stayed, perhaps we should have stayed and sunk into the moment that we had been gifted with, but I was mad for her.  
  
I held on tighter to her hand as we reached the point that the crowd thinned; the music was roaring but I did not hear it. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart, the rush of blood in my ears, all because of the knowledge that she had called to me, that her lips waited to be kissed, that—  
  
“Hermione—”  
  
If waiting just a few more seconds was ever an option, then I could not take it.  
  
I led her into a quiet alley. The wind whipped around our bodies and I tugged her closer, turning with her until her back was to the grey stone wall of whatever building was fortunate enough to have her body near it.  
  
“Hermione…”  
  
Slowly I placed two palms on the wall beside her head. Her dark eyes still swam with water and I bent down closer to her, knowing all the while that I was trembling.  
  
Our mouths were but an inch apart. Her breath was warm in the cool, crisp air.  
  
“Severus,” she whispered, and still I took the path of hesitation and rested my forehead on hers. I breathed in the scent of her—lilacs and jasmine and the sea—and let out a sigh of longing.  
  
“Hermione – I want…” I closed my eyes, bringing my mouth to her cheek, grazing my lips on her soft, warm skin.  
  
Her hands slid into my coat and pulled my hips to hers, and I groaned from the pleasure that could come only from her nearness.  
  
“I want you to kiss me, Severus,” she whispered; there was never any other choice but to obey her.  
  
.  
.  
  
The first touch of his lips to hers was careful; delicate. Once, twice, thrice he kissed her, and when he would have moved away to measure her reaction, it was _her_ desire that kept him there. Hermione slid her hands around his neck and pulled him back to her, whimpering at the feel of his tongue flitting into her mouth.  
  
She felt him everywhere – on her mouth, where he pressed kisses that tasted of him, and on her body, where his lean form entrapped her. She felt him surrounding her with the sound of his quiet, quickened breaths; his small sigh when she tilted her head, deepening the kiss; his hands that moved from the wall to her cheeks, cupping them with care.  
  
He was everywhere and she pushed away from the wall, pressing her body into his with as much strength as she could gather. He caught her with a groan of satisfaction and buried a hand within her hair, the other delving down to her lower back.  
  
She was on fire for it. She wanted his hand to move lower, to stroke her, to touch her buttocks, her thighs, her sex. She wanted – no, _needed_ him closer.  
  
When his mouth left hers, intent on tasting her skin, she gasped. “Severus—Severus…”  
  
He gave a questioning hum and paused, the only movement being his lips on her jaw, pressing teasing kisses down towards her neck.  
  
“Severus?” she whispered, nudging his cheek with hers. “Take me home, Severus.”  
  
“I will,” he vowed, gathering her into his arms. “I will. Come here, come closer.”  
  
With a breathless laugh, she held onto his lean, strong body as he twisted them away.  
  
They appeared in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. He stepped away and she caught her breath, barely able to believe her good fortune.  
  
Somehow he managed to speak. “I think you should come upstairs,” he said evenly, his deep, silken voice wrapping around her. He reached for her then, but kept his hands away from meeting her body, giving her the option of turning away.  
  
Hermione closed her eyes. She could say no, she knew she could. She knew without a doubt that he would never change his treatment or opinion of her if she did so. She could walk away now and go to her bed, and the next morning she would see him and smile and they would talk. The very idea of such a thing was painful.  
  
“I think,” she murmured, opening her eyes to see him staring at her, his black eyes gleaming with lust. “I think I should… oh, I think I should—”  
  
She gave up and half-fell forward into his waiting arms, and he crushed her to him, turning his face until he could cover her waiting mouth with his. He kissed her insistently now and his tongue was in her mouth, dancing with her own. With his strong grip on her hips, they took a step together; his mouth stayed with hers as he walked her backwards, and she tore herself away to check the stairs before turning to him again.  
  
He grinned, and his eyes were locked on hers as he reached behind her, hands smoothing over her backside before pulling her up. She went into a peal of laughter and let him lift her, his chuckles music to her ears as he walked them higher into bliss.  
  
When they reached the landing outside his door, he backed her to the wall again, sinking his teeth into her neck. She gasped, her voice loud in the quiet home, and rolled her hips. He moaned then, wrenching his mouth away from her to fumble with the door handle, kissing her between her breathless giggles. He shifted her weight in his arms and entered the room, kicking the door closed behind them. Gracelessly, both fumbled with their boots before he kissed her again, clutching at her body.  
  
And then they were falling onto the bed, and she knew that he would catch her. Severus gathered her into his arms and kissed her soundly, lying beside her there in the dusk of the summer night.  
  
“I want you, Hermione,” he declared quietly, his calloused fingers tracing circles on her stomach. “I want this. I have wanted this since you first opened the door,” he admitted faintly, surprising both her and himself.  
  
There was a question there, and the witch tilted her hips closer to him, near gasping with desire. “Yes, yes,” she whispered, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. “Yes, Severus.”  
  
He undressed her slowly, untying the sash on her dress and pausing to press an open mouthed kiss to her newly revealed cleavage. His fingers fumbled with the inner clasps, and he laughed under his breath with delight when finally each side of the dress gaped open. Tentatively, Severus slid his hands under her back and pulled her up, studying each sliver of skin intently as he tugged off first one shoulder of the dress, and then the other.  
  
“You are beautiful,” he murmured, running his fingers over her matching black brassiere and underwear. “Oh, Hermione – this is… you are…”  
  
She leant closer, arching towards his seeking hands. With one finger, she reached for him and covered his lips. “Stop thinking now,” she whispered with a smile of quiet joy.  
  
He grinned, but the amusement soon left his dark gaze as he took her in, kneeling on the bed as she was. Again he trailed a finger over her lace covered breasts, pausing to teasingly drag a short nail over her nipples. She gasped, her head falling back, and he bent his head and suckled her over the lace, the combination of wet tongue and delicate fabric causing a storm of desire within her that she was helpless to avoid.  
  
Hermione moaned, planting her palms on the bed as his hands snaked around her body. Carefully, he unclasped the black brassiere, his mouth still on her breasts. He drew back and hooked a finger over one shoulder strap; his eyes were alight with desire and a softness that caused her to blush.  
  
Inch by devious inch, he tugged the strap down. Severus watched her, a smirk playing on his lips; she knew that he was enjoying it.  
  
When one shoulder was free, he bent his head of long, black hair and kissed her bare skin, dragging his mouth to her neck. As he pulled the other strap down, he nipped and licked her skin, his tongue tasting the salt air on her body.  
  
“This can go, I think,” he murmured teasingly, tossing the bra onto the bed. “And these…” Severus splayed his hand possessively over her stomach before his fingers danced on the waistline of her sheer stockings. Without a word, Hermione raised her hips, grinning at him when he triumphantly glanced at her.  
  
He rolled the stockings down, his palms following as he caressed her legs, gently pinching her toes when they were finally off. She gasped again, unrepentant, as his touch came higher and his impatient hands dragged her knickers off. Giggling, she kicked her leg, dislodging the scrap of silk. Severus smiled, watching her as one wandering hand delved over her mons, coming to rest between her thighs. He pressed provocatively on her sensitive flesh, but soon enough his hands left her centre and returned to pressing down on her belly.  
  
His hand was warmer than warm on her skin; like a panther, he crawled over her with cat-like grace, and soon she was under him, her body covered by his long, lean form. She gazed up at him, still incredulous that he was here with her in the bed as the sea roiled below the window. She felt as if her desire echoed the fierce waves – it was unrelenting, unquenchable but by his touch. Hermione reached for him, tracing the angles of his face.  
  
“Severus,” she whispered, closing her eyes and melting into his touch.  
  
Severus exhaled in a trembling sigh as he bent to kiss her again. She opened her legs—she was powerless not to; her very soul demanded his admission—and he settled between them, his clothed body fitting there like he was made for it. She felt the heat of him pressing against her quim and her hunger rose until she was tearing at his grey jumper, pulling it quickly over his head.  
  
“Trousers,” she commanded breathlessly, batting away his own fingers to pull open his belt. Hurriedly she shoved them down to his thighs and he kicked them off the rest of the way. They fell to the carpeted floor with a thud.  
  
On another night or another time, Hermione would have taken him in her mouth, rubbed him through the wetness between her thighs… she would have eased them into the sensual dance that they were yearning for. And yet, as she lay underneath him, his smooth, pale skin on her tanned body, she knew that she could never wait.  
  
He watched her closely as his fingers slid over her clitoris; swiftly he replaced his hand with the velvet head of his cock. She groaned, undone and utterly defeated by the man and his passion that was all centred on her. It was exhilarating, and Hermione knew then that she would not— _could not_ —continue on as she was without him inside of her.  
  
“Now,” she commanded him, reaching between their bodies to touch the hard and ready length of him. His features twisted with pleasure as she stroked him and settled him _there_ , and she raised her hips, taking him in as far as she could.  
  
“Oh, gods—” he breathed, his head dropping to her shoulder as he slowly eased his way into her body. Hermione cried out from the fullness of him, from the _thickness_ —  
  
“I know,” she said, laughing from the sheer impossibility of this unexpected and disarming discovery. “Do it, Severus. Oh – do it!”  
  
He let out a short, incredulous laugh and she smiled, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce embrace as he retreated and then thrust into her body again. His delectable movements wrought a whimper from her lips; she dragged her nails down his back and clutched each buttock, digging her nails in, seeking an anchor in the face of a pleasure that she would never hope to halt. He grunted once, sighing from being enveloped within her, in the heat that would not abate; instead it welcomed him, luring him in, coaxing him further and further—  
  
Severus hooked his hand around her thigh, gritting his teeth as he drove into her slowly, so achingly slow.  
  
She had never felt this. Indubitably, a man had _never_ driven her wild with desire like this. Surely this intense connection between them was borne out of the days of drawing it out, of dancing around each other; she thought immediately of his thumb pressing down on her lip on the beach.  
  
Severus kissed her neck; her collarbones; her jaw. He suckled each lip, slipping his tongue into her mouth as he thrust his cock inside of her. She could only push back to meet him, her tongue and her quim meeting him with each sweet plunge. The heat and sweat and lust grew in the summer-dim room until the air itself carried the scents and sounds of their desire.  
  
Suddenly he paused, staring down at her with a faint smile on his lips. She hardly dared to breathe; she was full of him, and she felt his hardness deep within her belly.  
  
“Severus,” she whispered, clenching her walls around him, drawing out a dark, hoarse groan that seemed to slide out of his body. Their eyes met as he raised his hand and pressed his thumb down on her lower lip.  
  
“We should have done this yesterday,” he said quietly, easing out and into her in one smooth, steady stroke. She gasped, tossing her head on the pillow. His undulating hips stole a mewl from her dry, panting mouth.  
  
“I wanted you then,” she confessed, trembling. “I did. I wanted you. I wanted you to bear me down on the sand and have me then and there.”  
  
“I would have done it,” he declared in a deep, rough tone. “I swear – I would have done it. I would have taken you on the sand with no-one to hear you but the gulls.”  
  
She tittered, fond of the forthright tenderness with which he spoke. “It would’ve been cold. There would’ve been too much sand.”  
  
With his gaze intent upon her face, Severus placed his fingers in his mouth and sucked. Hermione was speechless – it was the most erotic thing she had ever seen. Her very _flesh_ felt aflame with raw desire and she moaned, unable to stop her body from quivering. His black eyes glittered as he slid his damp hand down her body before his wet fingers found her clitoris and teased her with rolling, provocative strokes.  
  
“No,” he said with a sly smile, “it would not have been cold.”  
  
“No?” She bit her lip and sighed, her body bowing as she submitted to the pleasure he was intent on giving her. Again he lowered his head, settling it on her shoulder; he kissed her skin; she ran her hands over the powerful muscles of his back that shifted with each deliberate thrust.  
  
Giving in to an urge she had not yet named, Hermione tugged his hair free from the band that restrained it; she ran the strands through her fingers until it surrounded them both in a curtain of black silk. It slid over her breasts, gently stroking her nipples seemingly of its own accord. She was entranced by it.  
  
“I love this,” she murmured, her body, her sex, her arms clinging onto him. Pushing his hair behind his ears, she pulled his face to her and kissed him fiercely. He held nothing back, running his hands over her body, his tongue in her mouth echoing his cock in her quim.  
  
She wanted more of this – of him. She pushed him gently and he pulled her over him, cursing as he slipped out of her. She laughed—deliriously happy—and sank down onto him again, moaning as his hands mapped her belly, her breasts. He lay back and watched her, black eyes burning.  
  
It was the fullness that she wanted. Hermione rolled her hips, taking him in further. He sat up and wrapped an arm around her, tilting her body back until her hair fell to the bed behind her. With strong hands he held her, coaxing her into his concupiscent spell. His lips closed around each nipple and she felt each lap of his wet tongue right down to where his cock was inside of her.  
  
Severus ran his fingers through her hair and kissed his way to her ear. “Hermione,” he groaned; with the slightest of pressure, he pushed on her shoulder. She sighed, enthralled, and he flipped them back over.  
  
“Oh, my Hermione,” he groaned, his thrusts building and building until he was driving into her. Again his fingers were at her, pressing insistently on her clitoris. She felt it then, as pleasure twisted and turned within her like the waves outside. Pleasure was often an illusory goal, she had believed, but here with Severus, the truth of their act was begging to be told; her body was tightening, heat was increasing, and she arched under him restlessly, seeking, searching—  
  
“Oh, God!” she cried out as he took her hands and pressed them onto the bed beside her head of wild hair, driving into her with a growl that sent her over the edge like a wave upon the shore.  
  
.  
.  
  
I felt it. Oh, by God, it was impossible but I felt it—  
  
I felt her—  
  
Oh, but she is brilliant and I am falling, I am drowning in the waves of her and I cannot surface—  
  
.  
.  
  
She spent the night in my arms. I woke often, unused to the warmth of a woman’s body being curled up around my own. Her hair tickled my neck.  
  
The sun barely set that night, though it shone through the window ferociously the next morning. I stayed close to Hermione, curving my body around her back; I was drawn to her soft, golden skin. There was a comforting—and arousing—scent clinging to her skin, of day-old perfume, sweat and sex.  
  
I hesitated, wanting to bring my nose to her hair and drink in the smell of her shampoo, but would she welcome it? In the cold light of day, would she welcome _me_?  
  
I was sure that my heart had already admitted her. Her unreserved passion was irresistible. My only true regret was that I had not seen it—seen _her—_ sooner. She was a woman that I wished to know better, though somehow I knew that I had come to know her better than all – touch comes before sight, before speech, after all, and in that first and ultimate language, I knew her down to her very bones.  
  
My body craved her; reminiscing left me half-hard. I swallowed, turning my head away from her sprawling, frizzy morning hair. The delicate, fledging nature of what we had shared—and what we _would_ —share could wait to be tested. Lest I woke her, I moved carefully out of the bed, standing to watch her for a moment. She was dozing; her eyes moved beneath her lids.  
  
I closed the door to the bathroom quietly and made for the shower, and all the while I pondered with a smile just what my witch would be dreaming about.  
  
.  
.  
  
The day that followed was quiet. For the sake of the school, there were things to say, though I was not in a hurry to begin that conversation. Instead I found myself in a far more pleasurable position; the book I had stumbled over time and time again was now more interesting, and I read while lying on the couch. In between making pots of tea, checking the e-mail, and taking Miss Lovegood’s delivery of fruit and vegetables, Hermione settled herself alongside me, her head resting on my chest as she devoured her own paperback.  
  
We spent the morning this way; in the afternoon she took a bath and I walked the perimeter of the B&B’s land with a mug of steaming coffee. I composed my speech, and rehearsed possible arguments to her rebuttals – if she had any. The wind wrapped around my body, cooling the coffee swiftly. I stood and stared at the ocean.  
  
.  
.  
  
“Shall we walk?” she asked, coming into the sitting room with both jackets. “We should take advantage of the sun. It’s such a pity really, that Hogwarts isn’t near the sea…”  
  
I watched her from the couch. I wanted to bury my face in her breasts. “Why? It has the lake…”  
  
“You know,” said Hermione, putting a hand on her hip, “now that I know where to look, I can tell when you’re being deliberately obtuse.”  
  
“Can you now?” I stood and strolled over to her. Amusingly, she stood on her toes and helped me into the jacket. When I turned to face her, she was smug and blushing.  
  
“Oh, yes,” she said, stepping into me. “It’s your eyes. And your lips. They twitch.”  
  
My arms came up to hold her; as I did not think on the movement at all, it seemed that it was instinctive; automatic. Interesting. She nuzzled into my chest and took in a deep breath before releasing it with a soft, low moan.  
  
“You always smell so…”  
  
“So…?” Her body was pressed to my chest; I felt a twist slither down to my groin. I wanted her, but there was a certain intimacy involved in suggesting a fuck on the dining table, and I wasn’t sure that we had it. Not yet, at least. I would leave it up to her. “So?”  
  
She put her nose to my chest again. “So… delicious. It’s… Do you wear cologne?”  
  
“Aftershave,” I said idly, shrugging.  
  
Hermione gave a small shake of her head. “Do you make it?”  
  
“How else would I get it?”  
  
“Make me some,” she demanded loftily, stepping away. My chest felt cold. She turned and I eased her coat onto her shoulders; unable to resist, I bent and kissed the back of her neck before twisting the scarf she handed to me around and around. She twirled as I worked – the black piece of fabric seemed to go on and on, and by the time we were done, I was staring at the warm, bundled-up woman and knowing that it was not just desire that I felt for her. She smiled impishly.  
  
“Why should I do that?” I asked when we left through the back door. She took my hand; the intimacy of the casual gesture was heady.  
  
“I want to smell you,” she said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps it was: _I want to smell you._  
  
‘ _When?_ ’ I wanted to ask. ‘Now? Always? On a semi-regular basis? Monthly?’  
  
Merlin himself knew that I could certainly not keep myself in check if she were to say: monthly.  
  
She dragged me away into nothingness, and we popped into existence on a beach that I didn’t recognise. “I found it yesterday,” she said, keeping hold of my hand. “Or at least, I saw it from my walk yesterday. It looked quiet; calm.”  
  
“It is those things,” I allowed, automatically looking over the rocks. There were less here than Skaill—no treasures today, I thought wryly—but we had traded picturesque seas for privacy. This was a small beach, almost a tiny little inlet. The land banked up behind the rocks and sand – we were utterly alone. Almost without thought, I led us to the larger rocks near the south end. I sat—a warming charm placed before arse met stone—and drew her between my legs. She swivelled around and watched the water, and I watched her.  
  
The sound of the sea lessened gradually, though it was entirely due to my awareness of her rather than a gentling of the currents. “Why do you want some of my aftershave?” I asked eventually, placing my hands on her hips to turn her around. She allowed it, coming to rest in front of me. Hermione looked shy; awkward. There was a flash of curiosity in her warm brown eyes as she studied me there, sitting below her.  
  
She blinked; stared at my mouth. “I like the smell of your skin. I would like to…” Hermione paused and tilted her head. I smiled, drawn into the web that she was weaving around us. Had anyone ever said such things about me?  
  
Never.  
  
But it wasn’t just that; it wasn’t just the unexpected comprehension that a woman could feel such things about me. It was more… more…  
  
It was more.  
  
I think that it was just _her_.  
  
She gave a mild smile that probably was supposed to be innocent. It wasn’t.  
  
“I suppose that I just want to be with you more often; I want to see where this goes. Have dinner with you. Again, that is. Read. Take more walks. More dinners. More sex.”  
  
I held my breath, then let it all out in one gush of lust and relief. “Ah. I think that would be…”  
  
“Agreeable?” she put in teasingly, placing her small hands on my shoulders.  
  
“I disagree,” I said, too lost in looking at her to truly grin, though it was there somewhere, just waiting to spread over my face. “Good. Marvellous. That’s what it would be.” I glanced down in surprise as her hand slid to my waistband, accompanied by her tempting, cunning smile. “It would be marvellous,” I confessed, suddenly closer to rapture.  
  
And it was marvellous. She knelt down between my knees and unbuttoned my jeans; her tiny hand slipped inside; she coaxed my cock out and covered it with her hot, wet lips. I tipped my head back and groaned, lost in the sensation of sea and sky and woman.  
  
Yes, yes, _yes_ \- it was marvellous.  
  
.  
.  
.  
  
The sea was wild, harsh and strong. It battered the ship, its waves smashing into the hull, its force lashing the sides. The vessel dipped and dived, carving out a path through the battleground of the oceans that met underneath. Atlantic and North fought for dominance in a dramatic display; perhaps we should have heeded the warning of the captain, and found a seat within to wait it out. We chose instead to stand huddled in the open, our feet anchored to the floor by a charm, the spray of the sea hitting our faces.  
  
It was fitting; I had arrived this way, and I would leave this way. The cold water was refreshing, and yet it was a reminder. I had come seeking solitude; the woman who was anchored to my side was everything that I had not sought. And yet she was here and I was here, and I would not forget the weeks by the roaring, powerful sea. I _could_ not forget it. The rough wind had worked its magic on me; the skies had drawn me into their spell.  
  
I glanced down at the witch and, seen by none but the endless skies and sea, I smiled.  
  
The bottle of Spanish red was safe in my trunk. In my pocket was a vial of Skaill sand.  
  
I held Hermione in my arms as the ship returned us whence we came.  
  
.  
.  
  
 **The end**.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for snapebraille4tu's amazing prompt over at the sshg_smut fest on LJ. The prompt: ‘Romantic Smut: a slo-oh-oh-oh burn. Severus and Hermoine both take a holiday away from their respective teaching jobs at Hogwarts. Unbeknownst to either of them, they have picked the very same seaside town to call their home-away-from-home. Crashing waves and steep cliffs, fog and long hair whipping in the wind...a thumb across a bottom lip starts it all...’
> 
> Title comes from the Bill Whelan musical masterpiece of the same name. Lyrics at the beginning of each part belong to Damien Rice’s fitting song, ‘Colour Me In’. Inspiration has also been taken from the Margaret Atwood quote: “Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.” Thank you to the incomparable group of three women who guided, edited and wrangled this into submission: AdelaideArcher, Banglabou and Ms Anthrop.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sshg-smut fest 2016 on LJ, for snapebraille4tu. Prompt at the close. Notes: Title comes from the Bill Whelan musical masterpiece of the same name. Lyrics at the beginning of each part belong to Damien Rice’s fitting song, ‘Colour Me In’. Inspiration has also been taken from the Margaret Atwood quote: “Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.” Thank you to the incomparable group of three women who guided, edited and wrangled this into submission: Banglabou, AdelaideArcher & Ms Anthrop.


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